Next week is a big week around here. Around the infertility blogging world in fact... We've come to realize that sometimes--unintentionally of course-- men get left out of our blogs and support forums... and somehow everything becomes all about US...imagine that. We've decided that writing DH once or twice between boo-hoos really doesn't cut it. Let's face it, whether they're our support person (and that's a full-time job that deserves a medal in itself) or they're dealing with male infertility...we owe them (well, don't tell them I said that last part, that would make living with them unbearable.)
So next week, for the entire week leading up to the dreaded Father's Day, (June 11-June 17) we're doing a Bounce-Around. I'll give you more details as it approaches, but basically bloggers will be writing special posts dedicated to the men stuck in this stinkin' situation with us and we'll all have links to each other's blogs so both of you can "bounce-around" from one to the other all week. Hopefully, this way, the men will feel some love during a potentially trying week and everyone will get to see some great blogs they may not know about.

I'm starting you off here if you don't mind, with an excerpt from my new e-book:
Laughing IS Conceivable: One Woman's Extremely Funny Peek into the Extremely Unfunny World of Infertility

(available on Amazon for Kindle & phones, Ipads etc w/Kindle apps) for a measly $3.99. (Click book cover on the right to purchase or read reviews)...anyway here's a bit about my DH (just so happened those are my husband's initials. His name is David Haber...Okay, that's an obvious lie. I mean, my last name is Fox. Notice I even had to make my fictitious husband Jewish)

Excerpt from Chapter One: Loss of Mind: The Only Guaranteed Side Effect
Needling at Night

My neuroses seem to flourish most after dark- almost always after office hours. At 9:00 one evening, my husband and I were clustered over the bathroom sink examining syringes.

“I could swear last time the needle wasn’t this thick.” I was certain.

“It’s the same needle.” He insisted in monotone.

“What if it’s not? What if I puncture my spleen? I have to get up for work at 6 a.m. I don’t have time for a punctured spleen. And after all the time and money we spent? They probably won't let me go through with the retrieval until I get my spleen fixed. And how much is THAT going to cost?!”

His mouth gently suggested I have the answering service page whomever was on call. His eyes, however, told a more sinister tale. Clearly he was mentally rehearsing how he would explain the syringe in my neck to the cops who clamored into my bathroom in response to his “frantic” 911 call.

As there was nearly a full one-tenth of one percent chance that I was about to use the wrong needle, I took his back-handed suggestion and had the answering service page Dr. Martin who was on call for emergencies.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Martin called me back--party noise in the background. Counting my husband and the answering service guy, Dr. Martin was the third male to hate my guts within the quarter hour. “What IS it Mrs. Fox?”

I explained about my spleen and the police taking down the report of my “accidental” death. He was very understanding: “It’s the right needle. Stick it in your behind and go to bed!” Click.

I turned to my husband, phone in one hand, syringe in the other.

“He didn’t mean I should leave it in all night did he? I don’t remember EVER doing that before.”

Leaning up against the bathroom door frame, he looked at me, murder still in his eyes: “Why don’t you page him again and ask?”

I pictured the two of them buddying up at the inquest.

Dr. Martin: “Look, I’ll say you were with me all evening…”

Laughing IS Conceivable: Chapter Two
“THE HUSBAND: WHAT’S HE GOT TO DO WITH IT?”

Often I will refer to “the husband”. It may not be politically correct or accurate in your case because you may have a boyfriend, significant other, life partner, chum, donor, willing participant, or friendly neighborhood ejaculator. So please don't get offended if sometimes I use “husband” as an include-all title. I just think it sounds nicer than “the guy with the plastic cup”. In college, I had a friend who always introduced her male companion as her “lover”. Finally one day, after having witnessed dozens of partygoers squirm at this introduction, I suggested to her:
“Carmen, why don't you just say: 'This is John, the guy that I do?'”